


The Boy is Too Normal

by Macdicilla



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett, Good Omens- BBC Radio Adaptation
Genre: Nonbinary Character, Other, major dramatic irony, oh shoot who’s going to tell them, radio!verse, they are sappy saps, this contains sex, this is what happens when miscommunications go right
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-06
Updated: 2016-01-06
Packaged: 2018-05-12 05:20:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,995
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5653888
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Macdicilla/pseuds/Macdicilla
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the radio adaptation, Aziraphale is the gardener and Crowley is the nanny, and somehow they don't realize in all those years that Warlock is the wrong child. </p><p>A good approach to plotholes is "this happened for gay reasons."</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Boy is Too Normal

**Author's Note:**

  * For [HSavinien](https://archiveofourown.org/users/HSavinien/gifts).



> Original title: On the Tip of the Tongue
> 
> For hsavinien. Happy holidays! You mentioned non-binary beings in your prompt and my mind immediately went to some ideas about the radio!verse I was toying with over the summer. You also said smut was welcome, so I’ve tried my hand at it for the first time and I hope you enjoy. Also, many thanks to my patient and kind beta, burnthehart.

  
  
 After work, Aziraphale usually drives Crowley home in his car. Aziraphale's car is the opposite of Crowley's. It is as far from stylish as possible. He doesn't know a lot about cars and couldn’t name the make and model, so if you asked him to describe it, he'd say that it is small and tan and has four doors. Crowley never criticises the car because it's supposed to be nondescript. It wouldn't do, he'd pointed out, for a pair of household servants to arrive at the home of the American cultural attaché in a sleek vintage Bentley.  
  
In fact, Crowley was the one who had persuaded Aziraphale to pick that particular little second-hand Renault in the first place.  
  
Aziraphale admired his cunning.  
  
That night, it was dark out when he drove Crowley home, since it was late autumn, the time of year when the sun gets lazy and decides to call it a day by six. Aziraphale was keeping his eyes on the dimly-streetlight-lit road while Crowley complained about his feet in the co-pilot seat.  
  
"I don’t understand, my dear," said Aziraphale patiently. "You said flats were more comfortable."  
  
"Oh yes. They are. And boiling water is more comfortable than fire. Don't get me wrong, I wouldn't switch back to the heels in a thous– in a lifetime. Not great for running after a kid all day. But the flats are too bloody flat, I tell you. They've got no bloody arch support. It's hell on the feet. I would know."  
  
"Goodness." Said Aziraphale.  
  
If he were to be frank, he'd say he also admired Crowley's dedication. There was nothing not thorough about the nanny persona. He'd even grown out his hair, though not terribly long. It was still quite short by feminine standards, but it was long enough to pin up on the sides in a way that framed his face gracefully, giving it a softer look. Aziraphale admired that too. Right now, it seemed to glow faintly in the lamplight.  
  
He wondered why he was thinking this.  
  
Oh yes, because he'd been thinking about how Crowley was doing a good job. They both were, really. The boy was perfectly ordinary. A success. Their success. Granted, Crowley had put some odd teachings into his head, but on the whole, the apocalypse was as good as prevented now, if you thought about it.  
  
If he'd said it aloud, Crowley would have spoken up and told him the kid was too bloody normal. But neither of them wanted to spoil the moment, for there seemed to be a moment in the air, a sort of calm and pleasant feeling.  
  
Aziraphale, slightly lost in his thoughts, looked exuberant, like he was about to break out into hymns of praise in angelic tongues, which would have disastrously exposed the whole operation, but was also a good look on him. Not being a fool, he didn't. Instead of impromptu psalmody, he started going on animatedly but quietly about all the good they'd achieved, all the destruction they'd avert.  
  
Crowley wasn’t entirely listening to the words. All he knew was that Aziraphale had that sweet glint in his eye that often went with rescuing a rare book from complete oblivion. Crowley's uneasy feeling about the boy was still too small and vague to put words to, so he shook it off as his cynical nature. Anyway, he'd forget it soon. He stretched out his arms and yawned.  
  
"Right. Well, that's all well and good, angel, but I'm going to change into something more comfortable. Did you leave my bag in the backseat or the boot?"  
  
"Backseat, dear."  
  
"Thanks."  
  
Crowley leaned his seat back all the way and reached for a green drawstring backpack. Hauling it onto his lap, he righted the seat again and undid his blouse. Then he reached behind his back, unclasped his brassiere, and gave a sigh of relief.  
  
"Hate this thing too," he muttered, "can never get the straps right. Too tight or sliding down my arms."  
  
Just then, a car that was coming from the opposite lane caught sight of Crowley and swerved towards Aziraphale's car in a moment of distraction.  
  
Aziraphale dodged out of the way and honked his horn loudly.  
  
"What an idiot," he said. Then, remembering that he was an angel of the Lord and realising 'idiot' was a harsh word to use for his creatures, he amended it to 'fool.'  
  
"I'll never understand Western culture's obsession with breasts." Aziraphale sighed.  
  
"Me neither."  
  
"I bet that man would feel quite silly if he knew."  
  
"Hm?"  
  
"Well, if he'd crashed his car, it wouldn’t even have been for looking at real breasts."  
  
"Not real?" asked Crowley, mock-offended.  
  
"Not a woman's, I mean. Just chest pudge."  
  
Crowley shot him a look halfway between amused and bemused. His nose crinkled a little to the side.  
  
“You know, I'm not sure you know what you're saying. I mean, technically– technically you're right. Technically, it's all chest pudge, and technically it's not a woman's because I'm not a woman, in the sense that we aren't men or women or any gender. Well, I’m not. That was one human thing I never quite got the hang of.”  
  
“Me neither, I suppose.” Aziraphale mused. “Those silly rules about jobs and clothes always changing. One minute no man would be caught dead in trousers and the next it’s a skirt.”  
  
“To be fair, that one minute was a span of centuries, and it’s not just clothes and jobs. But, angel, as I was saying, if you think I'm what some would call–and this is clumsy terminology– man-shaped right now, _well_.”  
  
Aziraphale looked a bit embarrassed. "Oh. Commendable dedication to the job, then."  
  
Crowley shrugged on a loose, clean tee shirt and smirked.  
"You think Hell would have issued me a new body just to babysit the Antichrist? Aziraphale, I've had this shape for at least a hundred years."  
  
"Are you saying this in jest or in earnest?"  
  
Crowley started laughing.  
  
"You seriously haven't noticed? I can't believe– no, really? This is like–" he paused to catch his breath "–This is like when someone gets a haircut and their friends don't notice till two weeks later."  
  
"I didn't want to assume anything," said Aziraphale. "After all, you've never made the effort to appear feminine."  
  
"Fair enough." Said Crowley. "Great, though, isn't it? Best of both worlds. Nothing wrong with looking feminine every now and then, it’s just that when I don’t, no human pats me condescendingly on the head. Plus, I like this form. Compact. Lithe. Elegant. Excellent singing range."  
  
"You sound like you're advertising a sleek car."  
  
"What, a travel-sized car that sings with you?"  
  
"It's not like you sing with me so often either."  
  
Crowley thought about that.  
  
"Huh. You're right. It's been a while since we got drunk and crashed the pope's choir. When was that?"  
  
"Some time in the renaissance, I believe."  
  
"Too long ago. We ought to fix that. What's a song we both know the words to?"  
  
Aziraphale suggested the Kyrie from Bach's Mass in B Minor.  
  
"You," said Crowley affectionately, "can sod right off."  
  
In the end, it turned out that there was a song from shortly before the Second World War whose lyrics they both remembered fairly decently. There was a songbird in it, and celestial beings with a penchant for fine dining.  
  
It also turned out that it was quite a romantic song, and Crowley wondered idly whether Aziraphale meant to choose it, then filed the errant thought away under false hope and shut the drawer. Sure, Aziraphale was gazing at him fondly, but that was probably residual excitement from his "we've practically saved the world" speech earlier. You could really never tell with the sort of person who called everyone "my dear."  
  
Crowley was half-right. Yes, the fact that Aziraphale considered their largely self-assigned mission a success did play into it. Aziraphale loved the world quite a lot, for a number of reasons, so he was glad the plan was going well. But, incidentally, one of the most significant reasons was sitting on his left.  
  
And, incidentally, the moon was out tonight and nearly full, and the warmer glow of the streetlights also played upon Crowley's face, and there was something about him that looked like a painting. But there was something else about him that was magnetic in the way paintings aren't, except when they're painted on lodestone.  
  
Aziraphale wanted to reach out and touch, but that wasn’t the sort of thing one simply did.  
  
"Aziraphale," Crowley was saying. He'd already put his shoes back on. "Where are you going? You nearly drove past my flat."  
  
"Oh. Huh."  
  
He stopped the car and put it in park. They both got out.  
  
"Terribly sorry about that, dear. Good night, then."  
  
They stood in front of each other for a moment. Then Aziraphale gave him a brief hug that was something close to a pat on the back. Crowley hugged him back, with both arms, and after a longer moment, they parted. They looked at each other meaningfully in the silence for a time, and then Aziraphale picked at a thread on his coat.  
  
"I'd best be going. See you tomorrow, then?"  
  
"Of course."  
_____  
  
Angels and demons cannot read thoughts unless those thoughts are addressed to them in prayer. Over the course of centuries, however, they have learned to read nonverbal cues with fairly reasonable accuracy. Just leave it to them to doubt their own instincts with regards to each other.  
  
Or perhaps it's that certain things cannot be believed until they're heard aloud. Perhaps you need to sort your own thoughts out in front of a mirror and speak to yourself, and ask yourself questions.  
  
Perhaps you've realized that being allies with someone for nearly a thousand years has made you best friends, and that being in contact with them every day, working side by side for the past six years has made you more than accustomed to his face and his honey-yellow eyes, and there are feelings you can't put a name to, of wanting to reach out and touch his cheek with the curve of your hand, and it will probably feel like soft peaches, and his hair between your fingers will feel nicer than silk, and it's only fair that he knows this. Maybe, if he feels the same way, he'll let you, and you'll do more than sing together.  
  
You'll tell him tomorrow.  
_____  
  
Crowley has vague thoughts in the morning that he'd forgotten to mention something to Aziraphale yesterday, but he can't remember what, so he turns on the car radio to make up for an oddly reticent Aziraphale.  
  
Just before lunch, he remembers, and then forgets. The child loudly demands to be spoon-fed his soup. Around three, he remembers again, and tries to think of what it means, if it means anything at all. Around six, when it's time to go home in Aziraphale's ratty old Renault, he's sorted it into words and is ready to say it.  
______  
  
"You know," said Crowley, walking beside Aziraphale on the way to the garage, "There was something I meant to say yesterday evening. I was going to tell you, and I didn't."  
  
Aziraphale stopped, looked around, and when he was sure that there was no one else there, he turned to face Crowley and took both of his hands in his own. He was blushing and he spoke a bit fast.  
  
"There's something I need to tell you too, my dear. Something I ought to have realised long ago, or maybe did, on some level, that last night made me think about."  
  
Oh. Well, this wasn't where Crowley had been going. But right now, it didn’t matter anymore that some snotty brat was too normal. No, this was better, and Crowley wouldn't dream of complaining.  
  
He took off his sunglasses and put them in Aziraphale's shirt pocket.  
  
"May I?" Asked Aziraphale, with his lips awfully close to Crowley's face.  
"Please do."  
  
Aziraphale planted the faintest brush of lips on his cheek, at the corner of his mouth.  
  
And Crowley saw that it was good, but he knew how it could be better.  
  
"Let me show you something." He said.  
  
Aziraphale hummed in agreement and their mouths met in the middle. Their lips parted.  
  
Yes, this was more like it.  
____  
  
They spent the ride home in a warm, comfortable silence, holding hands, occasionally sharing a giddy, knowing grin.  
____  
  
When they arrived at Crowley's flat, they kissed again, and Aziraphale learned that there were things a tongue could do that he hadn't imagined could feel so pleasant or even thought of, and how sensitive lips could really be, and what it was like to explore someone else's teeth, which wasn’t as strange as it sounded.  
____  
  
After this, for the following days, they could not get enough of each other.  
  
The phrase "drunk on kisses" has been used by more poets than is necessary, though through no fault of their own, for it is a good and descriptive phrase for something that is like inebriation, something that is like the delight of a cup overflowing.  
  
But it is not just the cup that is overflowing. It is as if the gates of an ancient and forgotten reservoir had been thrust open, and the waters had run clear over a parched land. It is like the dispossessed coming into sudden riches and living in a home with soft carpets and well-stocked refrigerators. It is like a feast of meats and cheeses right after the strictest and most Orthodox great lent ends, though, very thankfully, without the indigestion.  
_____  
  
The Dowlings had family back in the states, and they were going back to Boston to celebrate Christmas with them. The nanny and the gardener didn't have to accompany the family. They reckoned the boy would be safe enough with the family's six or so guards, and that the holiday itself innately contained enough influence from both sides that they could take the time off from their celestial and infernal duties.  
  
As to human duties, the Dowlings had hired their nanny to house-sit for the days they'd be away.  
_____  
  
It was night when Crowley let Aziraphale in through the Dowlings’ side door, into the kitchen.  
  
“I don’t like this sneaky business.” Aziraphale said. “It makes me feel like a thief in the night. Couldn’t I just come in through the front door?”  
  
“Nope,” said Crowley. “Can’t. They’ve got cameras at the front, one facing out and one facing the front hall. Technically, you’re not supposed to be here anyway. Now get in, angel. Can’t leave the door open for all the bugs to get in.”  
  
“Not a lot of bugs out this time of year, dear.” Aziraphale muttered, entering.  
  
The kitchen was everything one would expect a wealthy diplomat’s kitchen to be. Picture it. Nice, isn’t it? One could call the stove fancy. Also, the tiles were slate.  
  
“And if you’ve got qualms about being a thief in the night,” Crowley said, grinning wickedly, “Well, you’re not going to be too proud of this.”  
  
He produced four bottles of champagne from the refrigerator.  
  
“Crowley!” chided Aziraphale. “Stealing champagne from a hardworking vinter like that, it’s wrong.”  
  
Crowley gave him a look. “I wouldn’t steal from a vinter. This is the Dowling’s champagne.”  
  
Aziraphale appeared slightly relieved, but tried not to.  
  
“Still, your employers. You’d get in trouble.”  
  
“Nah,” said Crowley, shutting the fridge door with his foot. “I’ll replace their stuff with slightly inferior stuff later. They’ll never know. Humans’ palates aren’t as fine-tuned as ours.”  
  
“Is this one of the situations where I’m supposed to give you a good thwarting?”  
  
“I–wh–no,” said Crowley, wondering if he’d imagined something in Aziraphale’s tone.  
  
“No, this is most definitely one of the situations where you turn a blind eye to my sinful crimes, angel. Besides, Mr. and Mrs. Dowling did say I could help myself to any of the food or juice they had in the fridge. Champagne’s a sort of juice, right? Technically, I mean.”  
  
“Sly devil,” said Aziraphale.  
  
“Thank you!” said Crowley, grabbing the bottle opener.  
_____  
  
“Besidesss,” Crowley lectured several glases later, once they had grabbed some cushions and sat down cross-legged on the floor, “ssstolen wine’s one of the pleasures of the world.”  
  
“Yeah?”  
  
“Coursse it is!” He spread his arms grandiosely to indicate how clear it was. “Says so in the Bubble–bible, blesssit. Your book.”  
  
“Well, it’s not my book, personally." [Footnote: though he did have a hand in certain chapters of Esther] Aziraphale said, flushing, feeling quite flattered.  
  
“I know, I know. I’m just saying. It says so in there.”  
  
“Where the–hic!– where the heavens in the scripture does it say that?”  
  
“‘ _Stolen wine is swee_ t,’ it says, ‘ _and the food eaten in secret tastes the best of all._ ’ So there. ’S a proverb. Must be in the Proverb book. Fill up my glass?”  
  
Aziraphale did so, and filled up his own glass as well.  
  
“Yes, yes. Chapter nine, verse seventeen. But you’ve got it all wrong. The person saying it, in the context, I mean, is a disreputable and foolish person.”  
  
“You really know how to sweet-talk, don’t you. ”  
  
“Not you, Crowley. In the book, I mean. It’s an example of a bad proverb, you see. Words not to live by. Besides, ’s water, not wine, you ninny.”  
  
“It’s water?”  
  
“Yes, in the quote.”  
  
“Coulda sworn it was wine.” Crowley said. He yawned and stretched back on the cushions, and a bit of his shirt slipped up to reveal a patch of skin at his hips. Aziraphale did not know why he found it so interesting.  
  
“...but it’ss still one of them whether you book says so or not.” Crowley was saying.  
  
“Sorry, what is?”  
  
“Stolen wine. One of the pleasures of the world.”  
  
“Yes, yes.” Aziraphale mused. “That means we’ve tried all of them, now. Well, I’ll be.”  
  
Crowley sat up. “Er, no. We haven’t exactly.”  
  
“What do you mean?”  
  
“We haven’t done everything.” His heart was beating faster now, and he hoped Aziraphale was too drunk to use his angelic powers of hearing.  
  
“Have you got something specific in mind?”  
  
“We haven’t, uh, had, uh, you know.”  
  
“What, sex? You’re the last person I expected to be shy about this, you know,–” Aziraphale began.  
  
“’m not shy about this.”  
  
“–given your job and everything.”  
  
Crowley wrinkled his nose.  
  
“What sort of job d’you _think_ I have?”  
  
“I mean tempting humans to sin.”  
  
“Well, they mossly tempt each other. I jus’ haveta point them in the right direction, really. Not that I’ve never contemplated–I mean, not witha human, of course, but– Blessit, I’m going to need more alcohol.” Crowley muttered.  
  
“No,” said Aziraphale, gently prying the bottle and the slim glass from his hands. “Let’s sober up.”  
  
“You can sober up.”  
  
“ _Together_.” Aziraphale insisted, taking Crowley’s hands.  
  
“Fine.”  
______  
  
“It’s just that I never thought you were interested,” said Crowley quietly.  
  
“What, in general? Well, in general I'm quite apathetic, but if you're asking, I'm very enthusiastic.”  
  
“You won’t be in any trouble? I worry about you.”  
  
“I’ve never once gotten so much as a smack on the wrist for gluttony. And you know as well as I that sex is not a sin in itself.”  
  
Crowley knew that.  
  
“But what if I disappoint you?”  
  
Aziraphale looked at him with his head tilted to the side.  
  
“Crowley, my own, you could never, in any way, be a disappointment to me.”  
  
Crowley kissed him.  
  
“I’ve known you so long. I think you’re wonderful.” Aziraphale was saying between kisses, and Crowley did not want him to stop. Every kind and sweet word Aziraphale said to him made Crowley want to press himself closer, as close as possible.  
_____  
  
The world is spinning and Crowley has Aziraphale pinned to the ground, their pupils blown wide and their faces flushed. Aziraphale’s face is pink and Crowley thinks it’s a lovely pink. They are both laughing, laughing, because this is something they'd both wanted for years.  
  
Crowley, no longer holding back, takes initiative, plundering Aziraphale’s mouth and dotting his face with messy kisses. He drawns it out, relishing it. He strokes Aziraphale’s nipple through his shirt and hears Aziraphale’s breath hitch. It’s inebriating, the idea that he can inflict pleasure.  
  
“This isn't the best place for this, love.” Aziraphale says gently, sitting them both up.  
  
Crowley agrees, and thinks of miracleing the alcohol out of his bloodstream before remembering that he is already sober, and that it is the rush of his own endorphins that is making him feel like this.  
  
“Perhaps we could try the guest bedroom.” Aziraphale suggests.  
  
“Absolutely not.” Says Crowley, though the idea of a bed and what it entails is mightily appealing. “You can see the door to the guest bedroom from the front hall camera. It won't look good for me to be inviting scandalous guests in on the job.”  
  
“I'm hardly scandalous.” Aziraphale protests, but he knows Crowley is right. “Where should we go?”  
  
Crowley thinks about it. “There's a towel closet right outside the laundry room, and it's just spacious enough. There?”  
  
______  
  
Before they get through the door, they are nose to nose again again, grinning, whispering sweet things, stopping only to let Crowley stand and find the light switch to the towel closet. Once they're inside and the door is closed, Aziraphale builds a haphazard mattress out of towels while Crowley slips out of his clothes.  
  
Aziraphale watches him. He is not graceful. He mutters at his own buttons and nearly trips on his trousers. He is anything but graceful. Lust transforms poor Crowley from a swan to an awkward duck. But he’s endearing in a way that waterfowl are not, Aziraphale thinks, stretching out a hand to help him balance.  
  
“We're in a hurry, aren't we?” he teases, but with no real malice because a nude Crowley, his Crowley, is quite deftly working on his shirt buttons now and inhaling deeply at his collarbone, sighing contently as if his scent were the finest of wines.  
  
Aziraphale draws him close in his arms and meets his eyes. “No need to rush.” He means it. He could hold him and look at him forever.  
  
“Husssh, angel.” Crowley says, and kisses him again, and slips his long, thin fingers into Aziraphale’s waistband, against his hot skin.  
  
“Wait,” pants Aziraphale, and Crowley looks at him, puzzled. “I want— you first. I want to do something for you.”  
  
“Yeah?”  
  
Aziraphale lowers Crowley to the ground and props his hips up and looks at him as if trying to remember something.  
  
"Er," says Crowley, "it’s okay if you don’t know how."  
  
Aziraphale shakes his head. "I _do_ know. I know one thing."  
  
"Okay." Says Crowley. "One thing is good."  
______  
  
Aziraphale, despite his long time on earth, is still able to be in awe of the works of the creator, especially the human form, which is a wonder. He is reverent and slow like at a ceremony as he trails down Crowley’s body, pressing his lips onto his skin till he reaches his crotch. It is warm and slick and Aziraphale sticks out his tongue to taste, gently parting the outer folds with his hands so he can caress the inner folds with his tongue. Then he finds a small, hard nub between them and circles it with a bit of pressure. The result is immediate. Crowley inhales sharply and emits a muffled moan. Aziraphale does it again, this time rubbing across and harder and faster, and it's so _very_ nice, it’s like if being burned didn’t hurt, it's so good that Crowley whines and blesses under his breath. He can feel the soles of his feet tingling and sparks skittering up his spine. Aziraphale's fingers slip into him, stroking. He rubs more firmly and Crowley yelps and forgets to breathe. They go on like this for a while, and they catch sight of each other’s eyes for a moment. Aziraphale is bowed over as if in prayer, but he looks exultant. Crowley’s hair is messy and his chest is rising and falling there is sweat at his temples and Aziraphale thinks his serpentine pupils look almost round.  
  
Aziraphale in nearly undone at the sight of him like that, and shifts position to take a hand to himself. But he doesn’t stop and Crowley is too far gone to take much note. It is quite a lot of sensation at the same time, with Aziraphale's tongue on his clit and his fingers inside of him. Some part of his brain still capable of higher thought idly wonders if human bodies were built to feel this much.  
  
The ground is tilting but it might not actually be tilting and Crowley needs to hold on to something, so he holds on to Aziraphale's shoulder, which is shaking, because he doesn't want to pull his hair by accident, and he grabs Aziraphale's shoulder quite tightly, which Aziraphale interprets as a request for harder, or quite possibly faster, or _both_ and Crowley's legs are twitching and his hips are arching up involuntarily and–  
  
"Oh f-fuck, I'm going to–"  
  
“Me too.”  
  
For a few seconds, time and space do not exist.  
  
Crowley feels relaxed and distant, like one who’s just woken up. He’s vaguely aware of Aziraphale sitting up and cleaning his hands on a towel. Then Aziraphale stretches out and lies down, and brushes Crowley’s hair out of his face.  
_____  
  
“Holy– hic– crap." Crowley said, after he had regained his bearings. "What sort of– hic– false modesty problem do you– hic– you ridiculous angel– Oh, blessit, why am I– hic.”  
  
Aziraphale started laughing. He looked radiant and utterly debauched with his chin and neck wet.  
  
“My dear, you forgot to breathe.”  
  
Crowley's face reddened, though it was already slightly flushed from sex. “Make it st– hic– make it stop!”  
  
Aziraphale placed his hands on him for a moment and the hiccups ceased.  
  
“As I was saying, you can’t say 'I know one thing' when your one thing is that. Where on earth did you learn that?”  
  
“ ‘ _Your secret place is a rounded goblet that never lacks blended wine._ ’ ” Aziraphale quoted.  
  
“Mmm,” said Crowley. “Song of Songs. Well! I’ll be blessed. All these years, I thought old Solomon meant her navel.”  
  
Aziraphale smirked fondly.  
  
“Still, I can’t believe something like that is in your book and the stolen wine isn’t.” Crowley said with a yawn.  
  
“Who even compiled– no, I know who compiled it, stop right there. I don’t need you to go on about the septuagint and the vulgate. Come cuddle.” He stretched out, warm, sated, comfortable, and careless of his own nakedness. Aziraphale laid his head on Crowley’s shoulder, and Crowley began to stroke his hair. It was like lamb’s wool.  
  
“We’re so old.” Crowley said lazily. “I was just thinking of you in Byzantium.”  
  
“Right now?”  
  
“No, when we were having sex.”  
  
“Was I better-looking in Byzantium?”  
  
“It’s hardly like that. I’ve always found you good-looking, angel. No, I was just wondering to myself whether this was some sort of historical moment.”  
  
“You mustn’t flatter me that much.”  
  
Crowley snorted good-humouredly and gave him a light swat on the back of the head in jest.  
  
“‘Course I shouldn’t flatter you too much. It’ll get to your head. I was thinking of you when we first made our Arrangement. I was thinking about the other ways you and I have affected human history.”  
  
“Hmm.” Aziraphale said, nuzzling his cheek against Crowley’s shoulder. “Though I doubt posterity needs or wants to know what we got up to in a spacious towel closet. It can be our historical moment, just for us.”  
  
“Yeah.” Crowley said, beginning to drift off to sleep. “The big thing we’ve really done is we’re going stop the end of the world.”  
  
And he didn’t need to say it, but Aziraphale understood that he meant that it was really a nice world, when it came down to it, and that having someone to share it with, a friend, a lover, a lover-friend, made it all the more nicer. Aziraphale miracled up some pillows and a duvet from another room, and covered them both. After an hour’s doze, they found that the ground was really not that comfortable, they dressed and tidied up everything as they had found it, and left for Aziraphale’s place. Once there, they lay down in a proper bed (though Crowley muttered that the tartan-patterned bedspread was not proper) and Crowley went to sleep.  Aziraphale, who wasn't much of a sleeper, stayed there for some time to indulge him.  
  
____  
  
In the morning, Crowley woke up and wandered through the tiny flat at ease, as if it were his home, which it was, in a way. The plants here needed some discipline, but that was all right. He found Aziraphale in an old armchair reading a book with a mug of tea that was probably only still warm through supernatural intervention. Crowley snuck up  behind him and took the mug.  
  
“Good morning, my thief.” Aziraphale said.  
  
Crowley shrugged and took a sip of tea.  
  
“I never said I wasn’t one.”  
  
“No, but you did say you were a house-sitter, and then you let disreputable guests in.”  
  
Crowley chuckled. After a moment’s quiet, he spoke.  
  
“There was something I was going to tell you, a while ago. I can’t quite remember what it was.”  
  
“Did it have to do with work?”  
  
“I don’t know. I don’t think so. I think it was–It can’t have been too important if I’ve forgotten. But there is something else I want to say. I don’t know if I’ve said it yet, but you surely know. I still want to say it. It’s not really a thing demons say.”  
  
Aziraphale beamed.  
  
“I love you.” Crowley said.  
  
Who knows what the other thing was? It probably didn’t matter.  
  
  
  
  
 


End file.
